Mind
“Clarity is not loud. It arrives when the noise stops.”
The Room
The room of silence echoes sirens.
Light still speaks when the noise finally rests.
“Simple. Psychological. Symbolic.”
The room of silence echoes sirens.
Sound raises demons from their sleep.
It’s time to eat.
When your shadow marks its territory,
purpose becomes peripheral.
Though we can’t see what’s invisible,
demons ride your sleeve.
They ingest empaths without empathy,
armed with disastrous ideas.
They ride backs through torment,
watch—and point.
They say, get anointed.
But with every negative, there is a positive.
Light will always shine in the dark.
The room of noise collapses into silence.
Sound decreases.
Demons slumber in peace.
It’s time for my angels to speak.
Assertive, Not Loud
I speak assertive, not rude.
I laugh instead of correcting people—
not to be kind, but to be disciplined.
I speak assertive, not rude.
I play dumb and laugh
not to be disrespectful—
but to avoid telling you
the truth about you.
I sidestep my own thoughts
and offer encouragement
even while you’re still talking.
Because the mind has a way of trauma-dumping
when it’s been conditioned to survive that way.
I know people who swear
their truth is the truth,
but wear rain boots
on the hottest day of summer.
No wonder.
I’m not into hype or hysteria.
Not into the news.
Not interested in sports—
I don’t really care who wins.
I’m into writing.
Technology.
Women.
The Subconscious Library
The subconscious stores everything.
The conscious decides what survives.
Growth begins with learning what to keep—and what to release.
“Not everything stored deserves retrieval.”
The subconscious is a library—
a living archive of memory, experience, instinct, and repetition.
Everything you absorbed without permission
is stored there.
The conscious is the filter.
The editor.
It decides what gets retrieved,
what gets framed as thought,
and what remains buried.
One holds everything.
The other chooses.
Remember—
some memories must be shredded
to make room for new ones.
Spring-clean the mind.
Discard what’s broken.
Release what no longer serves you.
Mirror Work
This mirror won’t show your ugly.
It reflects strength, structure, and what’s still possible.
“This is not denial.
It’s a different angle.”
I hope you see yourself in me.
This mirror won’t show your ugly.
This mirror reflects
beauty and opportunity,
strength and structure,
optimism without denial.
My pops told me,
“No one sees you the way you see yourself.”
So let me show you what I see.
If you’re reading this,
it’s too late not to be nosey.
I see faith—
hoping one day love becomes a gain,
not a loss.
More bae, c’mon
than bae, I’m gone.
It gets sore after a while
chasing gones.
It gets boring after a while
chasing thoughts.
Life, Treated Right
I don’t need money or gifts.
I want to experience life—
and treat it right.
I don’t need money or gifts.
I just want to experience life—
and treat it right.
Chill with Teedra Moses on the beach,
listen to her sing to me.
Experience that slow-jam party
transitioning with Lissa Monet.
Go to Jamaica,
listen to reggae.
Go to Brazil
to learn the Maringá.
Travel the shores.
Skydive out a plane.
Ride the longest train— (pause)
Nah fi hear no one complain.
Just In Time
A moment of timing, attention, and arrival.
Hello—my accent echoed.
“Where you from?”
(honey-bronze, brown skin, thick ting).
New Jersey.
“Oh yeah, what part?”
She seemed older—
and I’m addicted to older jawns.
Englewood.
“Oh yeah, my brother—
ATP!”
(This where I tune out,
’cause I don’t give a fuck.)
In my head I’m like,
I just wanna see you turn around.
“Oh yeah, that’s nice.”
“Hey, you live around here?”
Yes, ma’am.
“Hi, my name is—”
Wide hips,
ass fitting the ass-to-waist ratio.
I’m starting to get impatient though.
She seems nice.
Let’s bag it, wrap it, taste the moment.
“My name’s Jhusten—
just in time.”
Destined
It isn’t luck.
It’s what remains when hesitation falls away.
What comes to you when you stop asking
and start moving.
“Everybody doesn’t make it back.
I did.””
I’m destined to live the dream
for my peoples who—
didn’t make it back home
like I did.
I felt left out, like a kid.
I thought we was about to ride around.
You dap me, said, “Jhust, I’m out.”
“Tighten your hoodie up.”
I turned around, you nodded, said peace.
Two weeks later, the news said homicide—
but the driver still managed
to drive to the hospital.
You was shot nine times before—
c’mon, you can make it.
The news said
y’all died in the car
at the hospital.
All we did was play Driver
on PlayStation 2.
My whole crew died
like Juice.
And I don’t have no proof
that I’m the last one left—
still alive,
still standing.
So I’m destined to live the dream
for my peeps
who didn’t make it.
Should Have
I don’t replay regret loudly.
It shows up as distance.
As places I never stood long enough to call home.
Some choices don’t haunt you—
they simply remind you
that you noticed the fork in the road.
I should’ve went to Morehouse
instead of my dog’s house.
I should’ve went to school
instead of cutting up, acting a fool.
I should’ve used the tools God gave.
Instead, I was in survival mode—
ducking graves,
still grieving some type of pain.
I don’t even feel any type of way.
I just know how to write it away.
I should’ve gone to Oak Bluffs for the summer.
I was in the hood,
watching niggas serve undercovers.
God above us,
but God forgot what’s under us.
Should have.
Could have.
Would have.
I don’t blame my hood
or my past.
I accept what I can’t change.
I move forward—
because there’s nothing I lose
that I can’t get back.
The When
I’m not in love with you.
I’m in love with the when—
the way a moment passes between two people
and quietly becomes something else.
I’m not in love with you.
I’m in love with the when.
When you walk by—
not looking for permission.
When you smile,
like it wasn’t rehearsed.
When that chip on your shoulder shows
just long enough to tell the truth
about where you’ve been.
When you say “excuse me,”
and I move.
And when I look back
and you say “thank you,”
like you noticed I did.
Low Cost
Nothing is free.
Especially the things that save you.
A like won’t cost you a million dollars.
No risk.
No sacrifice.
No explanation required.
Just a small acknowledgment that something reached you.
I’ve watched people hesitate anyway.
As if recognition were a currency they might run out of.
As if generosity needed approval.
But attention moves things.
Quietly.
Incrementally.
You don’t always see the change right away—
just a shift in posture,
a little more confidence in the next step,
a reason to keep going.
Nothing dramatic.
Just the world responding
to being noticed.
Headlights
You don’t need the whole road.
Just enough light to keep moving.
Brighter than LED headlights,
enlightened enough
to know
my head is right.
Outside The Lines
I stopped asking what fit
when nothing ever did.
Coloring outside the lines isn’t a mistake—
it’s the beginning of your masterpiece.
Longevity
I wasn’t built for moments.
I was built to last.
I want my scriptures to sing—
not loudly,
but with the discipline of a choir
that practiced long before it was heard.
I want the work to outlive me.
Not my name.
The work.
I’m not aiming for fans.
Crowds disappear.
I’m aiming for a seat—
with the scholar,
the professor,
the literature that gets studied
instead of skimmed.
Where psychology meets autonomy.
Where biology explains behavior.
Where creative writing isn’t decoration,
but evidence.
That kind of table doesn’t invite noise.
It invites patience.
So I write with care.
I revise with intention.
I learn what came before me
so I don’t mistake repetition for originality.
This isn’t confidence borrowed from applause.
This is commitment.
I got this.
Go, Girl
Go, girl—
not because they cheered,
but because you heard yourself clearly
for the first time.
Go
even when the room goes quiet.
Even when the path doesn’t explain itself.
Even when progress feels lonely.
You don’t owe confidence a performance.
You don’t need witnesses for growth.
Just motion.
Just breath.
Just one step that trusts the next.
Go, girl.
The future already recognizes your pace.
I only know you
from what people say about you.
I don’t pay attention—
though I listen.
I can’t find a reason to hate.
I don’t know you.
I would like to.
But the people I came up with
don’t even like the sound of your name.
It’s wild—
same inside, looking out.
So I’ll say it clean:
Congratulations.
You go, girl.
You never heard this
from my mouth.
Negative Return
I invested honestly.
Time. Attention. Care.
But in return,
my value came back negative—
not lost,
just slowly reduced
by staying too long.
Damn—I handcuffed myself
to giving people
the attention,
care,
help,
and love
I always needed.
I turned tears into smiles.
In the moment,
it feels worth it.
But in return,
my value comes back negative—
all investment,
no return.
Visibility
They see me.
They don’t see me right.
I’m monetizing now.
Not chasing attention—
controlling it.
Not everyone wants to read.
I accept that.
So I’m building a lane
for readers.
The algorithm doesn’t run on depth.
It runs on familiarity.
Not scripts.
Not stories.
Not long poems.
That doesn’t mean people don’t feel my work.
It means my work isn’t made
for every place.
So I adapt without compromising.
I leave short poems.
Quotes.
Quick sparks.
Something small enough
to move through the day with—
a caption that lives
longer than the scroll.
And for those who want more,
the door is open.
What We Never Sat Down to Say
Love wasn’t the problem.
Communication was.
We kept fixing cracks but never repainted the wall.
“Distance reveals what closeness couldn’t.”
I wasn’t just trying to bust a nut.
Our children were made out of love.
But when it’s us—
it’s my kids this,
my kids that.
You ain’t shit.
You don’t do nothing for these kids.
Your mom bald-headed.
Your sister a bitch.
You ain’t shit.
After all this, I realized—
love was never the fix.
We filled the cracks,
plastered the holes,
but never repainted the wall.
Why does this always happen on Sundays?
Some days you’re okay.
Not manic.
I don’t understand what this is,
but I keep telling myself
we will manage.
We were damaged
way before we met.
In your family, it felt like everybody
already knew all the answers.
After all these years,
nobody knew you were schizophrenic?
On top of bipolar disorder?
Who was supposed to have your back?
Your brother and sister didn’t even like you.
Everybody said you were crazy.
I didn’t care about none of that.
This is the mother of my children.
I met my first son
a day after he was born.
A month later,
I was on child support.
I couldn’t pay
because I was home with him
while everybody else was trying
to buy into my presence.
A month later,
I got locked up.
Already in arrears.
We never sat down.
We never talked about this.
Why do you always insult me
instead of talking?
Everybody knew—
except me.
That’s how it’s always been.
That’s why I hate surprises.
Because it’s always
some bad shit.
“Oh, she ain’t crazy.
She ain’t crazy.”
Who wakes up at 4 a.m.
to harass you
about something that happened
ten years ago?
Now everybody in your family
a bitch and a hoe.
Everybody baby ugly.
And some more shit.
Thirty days later,
you smiling and laughing
with the same people
you was just talking about.
“I’m not a real man.”
How do you say that
when everything I’ve done since we met
shows otherwise?
I broke my spine for Christmas
so my children could have everything.
Your mother said I was faking.
I never knew
what you really meant.
Do you only feel that way
on your manic days?
Or do you feel that way
on your good days too?
Unhesitant
This piece is about attraction without apology—confidence rooted in preference, admiration expressed without fear, and desire that respects intellect as much as form.
“I don’t borrow confidence.
I bring it.””
You thick as shit,
and I ain’t hesitant.
Let them other niggas look—
I ain’t scared of it.
I like females that are feminine—
glasses, protective hairstyles,
moves with elegance, talks with intelligence,
corrects me when I’m wrong
or misspelling shit.
Makes me feel relevant.
It’s a Lonely Road
Some roads don’t offer reassurance.
They offer space.
This is about walking anyway—
learning to trust the pace,
the silence,
and yourself.
It’s a lonely road
when you write episodes in your head.
Some people don’t understand.
They call it weird.
I avoid the stress
by not paying attention.
I’ve written for years.
I was scared.
The mind is rare.
So is time.
I get better—
more expressive,
more patient,
learning the basics.
Until one day
the way I think
speaks for itself.